Fly Away Home

By Anonymous

Editor’s Note: Third-culture kids—including MKs—have a few advantages over other kids (see “A Particular Course of Action” by Justice Evelyn Lundberg Stratton, alife, December 2006), but they can be torn between two “homes”—the country where they spend most of their time and the one where most of their extended family lives. This installment of Walking on Water expresses the longing of many TCKs.

Saint Petersburg, Russia, is my home. However, by nationality, I am American. My passport says so. In America, I live in Fulton, a small town in New York. It too is my home. I have lived in America for seven years of my life and in Russia for nine.

I am a TCK—a third-culture kid. My home is supposed to be where my heart is. But what if my heart is split in two? Then where is home? If I had a flying house, I could make my torn heart whole again.

I can see it. I could essentially live in two places, making the combination of both my one home. How amazing would that be? On weekends and on school breaks I could travel to the other half of my heart to visit. I could see the people I miss so badly and be with those I love. I could be there for them and not miss precious moments in their lives.

Imagine never needing to say good-bye. With my flying house, I could visit anyone, anywhere, practically anytime. Good-byes have always killed me inside. They are so hard. Sometimes, good-byes are said and I never see that person again.

With my flying house, things would be much different. Because of school, I would live here with my family in Russia more often. However, whenever the chance would arise, I would take off into the vast cloudy sky above my city. Saint Petersburg is one of the most beautiful places you could ever see. It is historic, complex and breathtaking. The pastel palaces, Neva River canals and colorful onion-domed churches would look even more spectacular from the air.

I would fly over the great Atlantic like I have so many times before. This time, though, I am not in an airplane. My flying house has the speed of a winged horse, so it would not take long to get to America. When I see the land of my birth, the place my passport says is my home, I would fly to the town I live in. It might be somewhat hard to find because it is rather small. However, if I were able to locate the large stadium in Syracuse, New York, navigating to Fulton would be a cinch. Though I was not born there, this town is my home because most of my relatives and American friends live there. It is a struggling community but nevertheless beautiful in the way small towns are.

Once I landed, I would find a place to stay (I would definitely not stay in my flying house). I would probably stay with my grandparents. I would then spend most of the time I had in America hanging out with my friends and family, trekking around my town, eating out, whatever. I would simply live. I would be home, after all.

That is what I would do with my flying house. I do not need to see the world—I pretty much already do that anyway! I would just want to make my two worlds one. Though each half is radically different from the other, both of them make up the home that is in my heart. I see my flying house as the connection between the two. I cannot be in both at once so I must step through the doorway to get from one to the other. My flying house would make it easy and just make things better overall.

All of this is just a fantasy, of course. However, I smile inwardly, thinking of memories, dreams and experiences yet to come. I am happy. I am ready to live every moment to the fullest. I cannot rely on my flying house to make things happen. I will live my life in thankfulness, seizing every opportunity to make each half of me whole in the place where I am.

The author is the child of international workers serving with The Alliance.

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